Smoke still lingered over Kirevale, curling in the air like the breath of a slumbering dragon. The fires of rebellion had not only burned away fear—they had summoned attention. Across the kingdom, eyes turned to the rebel-held city.
Inside the town hall, hastily converted into a war room, Elira stood at the center of a growing storm. Maps covered the walls. Messages from distant towns—some pledging support, others pleading for help—piled beside her.
Auren entered, his brow furrowed. "More villages are rising. North of the river. West of the mines. It's happening."
Elira nodded, though her voice was quiet. "We're not ready. Not yet."
> "You lit the spark, Elira. Now they're looking to you to lead the fire."
Garran approached, a rolled scroll in hand. "Word from the capital. The Council is calling you a false prophet. A heretic. They've put a bounty on your head—more gold than most cities see in a year."
Elira raised her chin. "Let them try to collect it."
---
Later, she walked through the streets of Kirevale—streets still cracked from battle, but alive with hope. Children chased each other with makeshift wooden swords. Women reinforced walls. Former merchants turned blacksmiths.
A hooded figure stepped out from a narrow alley.
> "Flameborn," the stranger said, bowing low. "From the Ashwood province. We bring you a gift."
The man pulled back his cloak to reveal a satchel of phoenixroot—the rare herb once used by the Flameborn to strengthen magic.
> "We heard the fires calling again."
Elira took the satchel gently, something flickering in her chest. "Then the kingdom is listening."
---
That night, as torches lined the battlements and lookouts watched the hills, Elira stood beside Auren beneath the stars.
> "Do you think we'll win?" she asked.
> "We already have," he replied. "They tried to erase you, Elira. But tonight, across Ilyras, people whisper your name again."
She closed her eyes as the wind stirred her hair.
> "Then let them whisper louder. Until the Crown hears them scream."
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